


Walking on the Air

by frnklymrshnkly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Enforced Themes, F/F, M/M, Multi, The Snowman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 02:22:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13090401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frnklymrshnkly/pseuds/frnklymrshnkly
Summary: In which Molly won't stop themeing Christmas Eve and Harry has a rebellious streak.





	Walking on the Air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aibidil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aibidil/gifts).



> Dear **aibidil** , I want to wish you the happiest of birthdays, the most magical of Yule's, and the warmest and merriest of Christmases. I wanted to write you something splendid, but instead I wrote you this. Thank you for all of the labour, humour, wit, and general Ravenclawness you bring to fandom. It's an absolutely pleasure chatting, Discussing, and creating with you! <33333
> 
> Colossal thanks owed to **tdcat** , without whom this would be unintelligible to other humans.

This is the year. Harry is going to put his foot down. 

He is going to try to put his put foot down. 

This is very much the year that Harry thought about trying to put his foot down.

He’d decided, however, that it just wasn’t worth facing down Molly Weasley over pyjamas of all fool things. 

Ever since celebrating her first Christmas as a grandmother (Hermione and Fleur had both been pregnant during the Battle of Hogwarts, unbeknownst to either of them), Molly had taken a shine to themeing the Christmas Eve festivities at the Burrow. The first year had been innocuous enough; Molly had requested that everyone come as as one of Father Christmas’s reindeer. Harry and Draco had arrived, as had most of their friends and family members, wearing reindeer antlers. They’d thought they’d take the biscuit by bringing baby Teddy along in an adorable Rudolph onesie, complete with an illuminated red bobble for a nose on the hood. They’d been trounced, however, by George and Angelina, who showed up in a two-piece pantomime reindeer costume. In Harry’s opinion, there weren’t really enough good themes to keep the tradition running, as evidenced by last year’s fiasco. Molly had proclaimed the theme Celestina Warbeck, and at least fifteen guests had come in cauldron costumes so rotund that it was almost impossible for them (or anyone else) to move about. Bill had cheekily come as himself, much to the chagrin of Molly, who did not join the others in amusement.

When Scorpius had unwrapped his gift from Dean and Seamus (who’d interpreted Celestina as a couples costume: Dean carried around an anatomically correct heart and Seamus sported a Christmas jumper made to look as though said heart had burst out of his chest), a hardback copy of _The Snowman_ and a DVD of the film adaption, Harry, Hermione, Dean, Penelope, and others with Muggle families had cooed over the beloved film. Molly, ever on the lookout for a new theme, had come over to investigate.

And so it is that Harry finds himself, one year later, grumpily putting on pyjamas for a night out.

It’s not that Harry doesn’t like a bit of fun. Quite the contrary. He’s often to be found chugging boxes of wine in a very merry manner with Pansy during parties, while both of them let their respective cadres of coparents get on with supervising the children. 

He also has nothing against The Snowman. Last Christmas morning had seen Harry lead Draco, Ginny, Luna, and Astoria in sobbing through the ending while their four children watched Scorpius’s new DVD with innocent enjoyment.

Harry just doesn’t like being told what to wear (or what to do, by anyone at anytime). He is, afterall, endowed with the rebellious spirit of one spawned by Lily and James Potter and godfathered by Sirius Black. 

Knowing that he who laughs last laughs loudest, he Floos to the Burrow without complaint. 

He and Draco arrive first, and headcount their three sprogs as each emerges from the green flames and dashes off to find their coolest relative, Charlie Weasley, without any thought to trailing soot and ash through the house. The children are followed by the Astoria-Ginny-Luna trouple, with whom Harry and Draco share a large townhouse in order to raise their children under one roof. 

At the Burrow the adults are all wearing their own pyjamas, with the exception of Luna, who believes it’s vital to let the skin breath during the night unencumbered. After being preemptively told in no uncertain terms to arrived clothed, she’s made do with Ginny’s threadbare Nirvana t-shirt and a pair of long underwear. Harry empathises. Draco, who’s quite pleased with this year’s theme (“I look fantastic in a dressing gown”) had refused point-blank to let Harry out of the house in his customary pair of fraying boxer shorts. 

The children, on the other hand, are all outfitted in blue and white striped pajamas and matching brown dressing gowns lovingly wand-stitched by Molly herself.

After James, Scorpius, and Albus disappear into the throng, Harry and Draco begin to exchange “Happy Christmases” and warm hugs with their friends and family members. They don’t remain by the fireplace long, though. They’ve been around the Burrow long enough to know that loiterers there are likely to be bowled over by latecomers. 

Draco is quickly snatched up by Penelope, who’s wearing a Falmouth Falcones nightshirt, while Harry kisses Molly on the cheek and compliments the spread, from which scents of sage and butter and gravy are wafting enticingly. Molly, wearing a truly Victorian looking nightgown, is holding court in the packed kitchen. Weasleys, Wealseys-by-partnership, and oodles of friends are crowded around the table, which is groaning under the weight of buffet dishes. There are simply too many guests on Christmas Eve to do sit-down dinners anymore. Considering how many of them had survived a war together, Harry’s hard- pressed to feel anything other than grateful

Harry grabs a butterbeer and makes a beeline for his favourite spot: halfway up the stairs between the kitchen and the second floor. He takes care not to spill any as he navigates a sea of people clapping him on the back and stopping him for one-armed hugs.

Halfway up the stairs, Harry finds Pansy sitting on the wooden boards, worn smooth from decades of being trodden on by his favourite people. Blaise Zabini, who’s platonically attached to Pansy at the hip, leans against the bannister. 

“Happy Christmas, you tossers,” Harry says fondly, saluting them with his bottle before taking a sip.

“It’s bad form to make a toast with a non-alcoholic bevvy, Harry,” Pansy scolds. “Why on earth are you drinking butterbeer when George has made his holiday grog? I look forward to having that ready-made excuse for whatever I say and do this evening.”

Blaise rolls his eyes at her. “Ignore her, Harry. I’ll be glad to have some sober adult company for once.” Blaise prattles on about how tiresome the inebriated are and the benefits of teetotaling, but Harry and Pansy have heard this spiel before. They've practically learned it by rote. Everyone who spent more than five minutes with Blaise knew that his vanity, which would make Narcissus look like a self-doubting tween, abstains from alcohol (“and smoking, and direct sunlight without appropriate apparel and sunblock”) for fear of premature aging.

“I’m not giving up drinking, Blaise. It’s just for tonight. And where’s Hermione?” He directs his question to Pansy.

“I don’t keep a tracking charm on her,” Pansy replies. “And before you ask, I don’t know where Ron or Cormac are either. You know I take point on all of their birthdays in order to get Christmas Eve off,” she appends smugly.

“I try that,” Harry says, “but the kids always ask me to play with them at some point, and I can’t say no.”

“They know you’re a soft touch.”

Before Pansy can comment further on his parenting, Harry spots Cormac, whom Harry is grudgingly impressed to see has worn a pink nightie, making up a plate that seems to be almost entirely dark turkey meat for Maximus (conceived after Ron and Cormac saw _Gladiator_ on a date), and heads over to them.

“Happy Christmas, Cormac, Max,” Harry greets each with a hug. “Have either of you seen Hermione?”

“I think she’s out back with Aunty Ginny,” Max informs him.

“Thanks, kiddo.”

Before he can make it out the door though, Harry hears a child’s voice call out: “Parent?”

A chorus of voices responds. When Hermione and Ron and, correspondingly, Pansy and Cormac, had been the first of the gang with a kid, Hermione had insisted upon gender-neutralising their parental addresses. Rose had grown up calling three out of four parents “parent”, with the exception of Pansy, whom she called by her given name. The rest of their children, along with the slightly younger Greengrass-Lovegood-Malfoy-Potter-Weasley cohort, had followed suit, much to their parents’ (minus Hermione’s) chagrin and confusion. As a delighted Hermione often pointed out, however, their group of friends practically raised their kids as a village anyway, so it hardly mattered which parent was being called for, as long as one of them answered.

Harry doesn’t hear a second call, so he assumes that one of his counterparts has fielded the request for parental intervention and heads outside in search of Hermione.

He’d enlisted Hermione’s help because he’d needed an accomplice. Ron would have been ideal, but he couldn’t keep a secret to save his life, especially from Molly.

Harry’s pleased to find Hermione sitting out back with Ginny, Fleur, and Bill next to a roaring but contained fire that’s got its work cut out for it on this cold night.

After exchanging Christmas greetings with Fleur and Bill under the starry sky, Harry asks Hermione if he can have a moment. Leading her back into the Burrow, he asks her simply: “All ready?”

“Of course,” she affirms. “I left it Disillusioned where you told me to when I came to pick up the kids last week.”

“Perfect. Thanks, Hermione.”

“Vive la révolution,” Hermione answers, raising a fist. Hermione may not be as generally recalcitrant as Harry, but she detests it when Molly (or anyone else) won’t take no for an answer, even in matters of fancy dress.

The two of them chat for a bit before Hugo, Albus, and Scorpius come over with Christmas Crackers to pull. Harry cherishes the moment, knowing all too well his younger sons will soon feel too cool to demand that he play with them. Thanks to some wandless, wordless spell-casting by Hermione, all the children win, and rush back into the throng to show off their new hats and read out their jokes. 

Harry and Hermione chat a bit more, and then each moves on. Many of the people here Harry sees on a weekly basis, but others he only sees a couple of times a year. He mingles, enjoying the opportunities to catch up.

He can’t hold out very long though. By eight o’clock it’s already been pitch-dark for hours, and he’s ready to get his show on the road.

Harry draws his wand, points it at his throat, and performs a wordless _Sonorus_. “Could I have everyone’s attention, please?” he calls into the din.

Conversations peter out and heads turn toward him. It’s unlike Harry to draw attention to himself, and his friends look curious.

“Could all the children put their coats, boots, gloves, hats, and scarfs on and follow me outside, please?”

Before waiting for any response, Harry heads outside. He passes the chicken coop and retrieves Sirius’s bike—completely refurbished since the damage it took on the night he fled Privet Drive—from where Hermione’s left it for him. After the war, Hermione read through the self-help sections of both Flourish and Blotts and Waterstones before beginning a campaign to overcome her fears;; in addition to dream diarying to work through her nightmares, and attending actual therapy to work on her control issues, she’d asked Harry to teach her how to fly, preferring the quantifiable mechanism of a motorcycle to the intuitive nature of a broomstick.

Harry removes the Disillusionment Charm, mounts the bike, and engages the engine, riding slowly back to the house where a crowd has gathered. Most are applauding and cheering, and he can hear Ginny’s and George’s two distinct wolf whistles.

Harry stands up, still straddling the bike, and announces: “Since we have _The Snowman_ as our theme this year, all the kids get a turn. Youngest to eldest, if you please!”

“Oh Harry, I don’t think that’s safe!” Molly chastises.

“I won’t go more than ten feet off the ground, Molly. Don’t worry. And the really little ones can go in the sidecar with an adult.”

Molly continues to protest, but she’s drowned out by the excited voices of the children, who were already queuing up by age.

Hugo, for once relishing being the baby of the family, dashes up to Harry. And he’s followed, not by Hermione, Pansy, Ron, or Cormac (whom Harry’d expected to elbow his coparents out of the way), but Arthur Weasley in his old-fashioned, ankle-length night shirt.

“Hop in,” Harry says, sitting back down and waiting for the pair to get seated in the sidecar. “Stay sitting down while we’re in the air, Hugo, okay? Ready?”

“Ready!” Hugo and Arthur shout back together.

Loudly but slowly, the motorbike begins to move forward and upward. He takes them for several inaugural spins around the garden, staying near the ground and travelling at a rate of speed low enough that Molly doesn’t protest too much.

After Hugo, Albus and Scorpius each take a turn, and they’re all so chuffed to be reenacting a moment from an _actual film_ that they don’t even complain about being relegated to the sidecar, where they sit on the lap of Arthur Weasley, who’d flat out refused to give up his spot.

Max goes next, and so on up the line.

People start to head back inside, where it’s toasty and there are food and bevvies aplenty. Soon, only Draco is left looking at Harry, who’s sat straddling the bike in the pajamas they’d bought together just a few days before.

“I bet you’re glad you’re wearing more than just boxers,” Draco says in superior tones, walking toward Harry.

“Can’t deny that one,” Harry agrees, pulling Draco close and kissing him firmly on the mouth.

“All that was missing was the song,” Draco says after a moment. “Walking on the air...” he adds, in a high sing-song voice.

“Want to?” Harry asks.

“What?”

Harry just looks Draco in the eye and then casts the bike a meaningful look. “Walk on the air.”

“It’s freezing!” Draco says, by way of an answer.

“So cast a Warming Charm. Yours are better than mine anyway.”

“What about the kids?”

“I’ll ask the other three to Floo them back when they’re done for the night. If we leave soon we can make it back around the same time—plenty early enough not to miss Father Christmas.”

Draco worries one side of his lower lip. 

Harry does his best to look enticing. He hopes straddling several hundred pounds of metal topped with leather is working for him, even if the pjs aren’t.

After some deliberation, Draco says simply, “you had better go clear it with AGL before I change my mind.”

“Consider it done,” Harry informs him, dashing into the house and feeling very glad that he’d followed Pansy’s example and been a model of Gryffindor parenthood during each of their birthdays that year.


End file.
